Catharsis
by Diddlee
Summary: Regardless of your pairing preference, you should read this fic. Not mine but one of the most honest, realistic portrayals of Tristan out there. Not a T/R pairing. Just suffice to say it's different than the sappy stuff you're used to reading..
1. Chapter 1

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Diddlee's note: This is not my fiction. I didn't write it. But don't worry, I didn't steal it either. This is the amazing work of my Twin, Pooh. She's incredibly talented but still has a thing against ff.net. So she's given me permission to pimp her out through my account. So maybe she didn't exactly use the word pimp. And it's a good thing she never ventures over here, or she would probably kill me. There are 11 parts in all to this story, and part of my desire to post here is I want to see the word count to judge for myself how longwinded she can be. If you're into Tristan angst, please proceed. I think this is the best characterization of him out there, and if GG wanted to do a companion book series to the show, they should look no further than this fic. 

I've left her header information from our site. If you've read it there, please feel free to review it here. And if you feel as strongly as I do about this fic, let everyone know in your reviews. So without further ado, nothing from this point forward is mine.

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CHARACTERS / PAIRING: Tristan and some other guy   
**SUMMARY:** Tristan's therapy sessions from GG: Season 1; 3rd person omniscient but mostly from the therapist's POV   
**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Ok, here's "The Dissertation"! _PROCEED WITH CAUTION... Very Long, Very Pro-Sympathetic-And-Complex Tristan Fic!!_ Just having some fun trying to sketch out Tristan's character since we know so little about him. For those of you who might want to skip this (and there may be a couple of you. der!), the basic storyline for this fic is a rehashing of Tristan's thoughts and feelings about what's happened so far in Season One. And please… I've never been to a therapist before (though that's really surprising) so I have no idea exactly how a session is supposed to be except for what I've gotten from TV and movies (great sources, if you ask me. D'oh). His main job here is only to help Tristan speak his mind. Also remember patient/doctor/reader confidentiality; since these are Tristan's private sessions, some parts contain only short excerpts from each session, instead of the entire therapy session.   
**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing but the clothes on my back, and that annoying shrink. The rest was borrowed from GG and the WB. 

  
  
**Part 1:**   
  
It was a face-off. Two equally stubborn men staring at each other from across four feet of plush gray carpeting. Only one was paid to be stubborn, and the other was merely exhibiting all the petulance of a teenage boy when faced with a situation he did not want to be in. A situation which, frankly, he considered a huge waste of time. There would be no forced companionship or friendliness if he could help it. He was quite prepared to stay smug and condescending and uncooperative for as long as it took for the other man to give up. The expanse of four feet had never seemed greater.

The older of the two, dressed quite casually for a member of a four-hundred dollar an hour profession -- in a pair of khaki slacks and a cashmere sweater which hid a neatly knotted tie -- crossed his legs and clasped his hands in his lap. He could be as patient as the other was arrogant and obstinate. He had no instruments of torture, and the small end table beside him was clear, save for a mug of coffee. He glanced at his companion over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. He had had nothing but friendly things to say when he had first greeted the boy, but the boy had not been as receptive. And he had not blamed him. Had actually expected it. The boy himself seemed to have come directly from school, still wearing his uniform of a pale blue button-down shirt, gray pants, black dress shoes, and the prerequisite dark blue blazer with the school seal over the left chest. He had returned the initial greeting, less than friendly or open, because he knew that it did not matter whether or not he charmed the older man, and promptly slumped into the couch opposite the armchair. He had exhibited all the signs of indifference that any other boy his age would have, if put in the same position. And by the way he was sitting, slouched, with one elbow resting on the armrest and his head on his hand, the older man knew that the boy was testing him. Challenging him to make the first move. Expecting him to make the first move. Waiting for him to take the bait. Because that was what he was paid to do.

And already, just from the first few minutes of observing him, the older man knew enough about the boy to choose any topic to start on. Though his blazer had been unbuttoned, suggesting a fun-loving and good-natured air, his tie remained neatly knotted. He was uptight. In general, or about something specific, the other man wasn't entirely clear on, but was certain that it would become more apparent later on. The casual posture suggested that he was normally something of a hotshot, able to charm his way out of almost anything. As if he would have had fun with this impromptu meeting, had he so desired to. Would have charmed him immensely. Would have worked his manners and magic and aura on him, like he had with countless other adults who had found the young man absolutely charming and likable after a few minutes. Only now, he seemed uncomfortable in his own skin. As if something had happened to him that had caused this change and made him human. Made him realize he was vulnerable after all. Made him not want to be in a room, alone, with a man who could possibly draw out that information and make him face it head-on. He knew instantly that this was not normal for the boy. The casually bored expression on the young face had been perfected out of years of practice. And he knew that this boy would not crack anytime soon, no matter what the pressures were. But, if he hit on the right topic, he would. The boy would crumble, and everything would come spilling out of his mouth. The older man had faced numerous adversaries this way. It was all a matter of time and patience on his part. He knew the boy would fold eventually.

"So…" he started. The boy's blue eyes flickered up to meet his, but glanced away, uninterested. As if he had merely caught sight of a bug flying past him. "Why don't we talk," he suggested, offhandedly.

The boy shrugged. "If you want." But he made no other move to elaborate.

He sighed. "You're parents…"

"My mother," the boy corrected, pointedly, but still managed to exude jaded indifference.

"You do know the reason for why you are here?" It wasn't really a question, but he made it into one.

The boy had amazing self-control and refrained from rolling his eyes. "Yeah. They want to give validation to their failing marriage, and they thought they would play the dutiful parents and get me to talk about it with someone."

He tried not to smile at the boy's frankness. "Yes. They wanted you to talk about how you feel about it. They feel that you've been holding all your feelings in and that they don't want you to be overly upset and unprepared if something should happen."

The boy scoffed. "If something should happen," he repeated disdainfully. He seemed to be deliberating the truthfulness of this statement, finding it relatively funny. "Something's been happening for years." And yet, there was no bitterness in his voice, merely resignation.

"Does that bother you?"

"That they want me to talk about it with someone?" the boy asked, pretending to be confused. 

He had to give the young man his due. He was already proving to be a far more superior challenge than any other young men he had met in the past. This one was good-looking and reasonably intelligent, hiding it behind a façade of apathy and indifference. But the spark of intelligence was there in his eyes, in his face, and in his body language. The boy did not hold him in contempt, but his entire posture suggested that he knew what he was doing and what the older gentleman was trying to do. The mere flicker of those intense blue eyes told him that the boy knew the game and the rules, and wasn't afraid of playing. But he had never met a young man he couldn't break.

"That it's been going on for years," he prodded gently, qualifying his original question.

"Should it?" the boy responded with a haughty question. Ask a stupid question, get a stupid question in response.

He wondered how long they would be speaking in circles. But at least the fire seemed to have come back into the boy's eyes for the first time since he had strolled in through the door. That was a good sign. It meant the boy was open to sparring with him, and if he knew anything, it was that most teenagers loved to spar. Especially if they thought they had the upper hand. "Your parents thought it might," the man admitted, as if not believing it himself. "That is why they sent you here."

"My mother sent me here," the boy corrected again.

"Your parents thought you could benefit from a helpful and listening ear." He continued, as if he hadn't heard.

"My mother called, made an appointment, informed me not so nicely to arrive on time, and to be cooperative." He smirked at this last piece of information, knowing his mother would have had a fit had she been there with him. Cooperative indeed.

"Your parents wanted you to…" Again, he ignored the correction, hoping it would anger the young man enough to get him to say something. Get him to react in a way other than curiously bored.

"My mother, okay?" It seemed important that he grasp this fact. "Shrinks are my mother's thing."

"Fine. It was your mother's idea," he noted, as if it didn't really make a difference to him either way who sent the boy. "And what about your father?" He eyed the boy with interest, questioning, but not sharing the question.

"What about my father?" the boy asked, sullenly, echoing the question. "He doesn't care about this. This whole shrink thing is solely my mother's idea. My father's perfectly happy that he got a well-adjusted son who could really care less about their marriage."

"Do you really believe that?"

The boy smirked, ready with a haughty and disinterested comeback. "That my father's perfectly happy or that I'm well-adjusted?"

The man grinned, because the boy really was funny. And he was willing to make fun of himself, a sign of healthy adjustment if he had ever seen one. "Either one," he played along.

"Is it important that I do?" the boy challenged. His position hadn't changed on the couch, but he had raised his head from its resting place.

"Not really," he admitted, neutrally. "Unless you think it is." 

He didn't. Something they agreed on. The room fell back into an awkward silence. The boy glanced away, his eyes seemingly unfocused, but taking in everything. The older man watched with interest, studying him. The boy didn't flinch, though he knew what the man was doing. The older man tilted his head to one side. He had come prepared, but not with the stereotypical pen and pad or tape recorder, as was usually attributed to men of his profession. He was merely being paid to sit there and talk with the boy, to provide a listening ear. Nothing more. But this boy seemed to need more. And he had piqued his curiosity.

Still, he wouldn't be happy unless the boy actually spoke. "Mr. DuGrey," he prompted.

He hit a nerve. He could tell by the way the young man's jaw clenched lightly. It was only a temporary nerve -- one caused by annoyance and disdain on the boy's part -- but it was still a step into the boy's enigmatic personality. "Mr. DuGrey is my father or grandfather, or what they call me in school. I'm not them, and I'm not in school right now. My name is Tristan." There was an irked expression on his face.

"Why don't you want to be called that?" He was interested in knowing what was going through the boy's head.

"Sounds kind of impersonal, don't you think? Aren't you supposed to try to be my friend or something?" he retorted. Perhaps in his own way, he was trying to tell him that he wanted to open up. But only if he saw him as what he really was. A sixteen year old boy. Not a young adult dressed in adult clothing, hiding behind an adult and detached name.

Here was something he could start on. "Would you like to talk about them?" Was there some reason he did not want to be identified with those men? When no response was forthcoming, he prompted gently, "Tristan?"

"Who?" He played ignorant. Yet he managed to look proud, bored, and sleepy all at the same time.

"Your parents, your grandfather… school…" he offered. Most of his clients could go on about any of those topics for any length of time.

Apparently, not this young man. Tristan shrugged. "Not really," he admitted, impassively, giving a noncommittal shrug. He was a lot more in control than a lot of his other clients, many of them men much older than this one. He was impressed with the boy and could sense a great future. If he didn't drive himself insane first with whatever was bothering him.

"No?" He raised a brow, as if he didn't believe him. Didn't believe the young man could possibly be this closed off unless it was an act. "You're a sixteen years old. I would think you'd have a myriad of rants about your parents and school and girls…"

The boy shifted in his seat. "I don't," he replied matter-of-factly, adding a sigh as if to remind the man that this was all a huge waste of time. That the man was wasting his own time. That he would rather be somewhere else.

"Everyone else does," he goaded.

"I'm not everyone else," he pointed out, firmly. And the older man already knew that. No, this young man wasn't like everyone else that walked in through those same doors. Was there a hint of upset in his voice?

"Let's talk about your grandfather then," he continued, as if he hadn't heard what the boy had said.

"I would prefer not to."

"And who are you all of a sudden? Bartleby, the Scrivener? We're not in a Melville novel. Why do you not want to discuss your grandfather?" He raised a brow.

The reference to literature seemed to make the boy even more uneasy than anything else had up until that point. He bristled, but brushed it off and returned to the question at hand. "Because my mother sent me here so I can tell you how I feel about her. And my father. And this has nothing to do with my grandfather."

He contemplated the boy for a brief second. Perhaps he was trying to protect his grandfather. Perhaps there was real affection for his grandfather. Perhaps it really had nothing to do with his grandfather. "Fine. Then why don't we talk about your parents," he suggested, trying a different tact.

"I'd rather not."

"Are we going to do this with every topic I bring up?"

"Maybe," he admitted. At least the boy was honest. He wasn't really trying to be difficult. He had merely not heard a question or topic that interested him enough to share his thoughts on. Private thoughts. And there was a hint of a smile. So he was teasing just a little, amused at his own situation.

"So you have no inclination to speak at all." Not entirely a rhetorical question but more of a mere observation.

"It would seem that way, wouldn't it?" They boy showed some signs of life as he smirked. The man immediately knew that this was only a shadow of what the boy normally would have been outside of this office. And he had a clue what kind of charm and power the young man could possibly exert on unsuspecting victims, if he so chose. And he was certain that had the young man been so disposed, he could have easily charmed the socks off of him.

"I know you want to talk. You can, you know. I am a neutral third party," the man reminded quietly, as if giving permission.

"There's no such thing." Experience and life in his social circles had taught him that. "And what if I don't want to? What if I have absolutely nothing to say?" Highly unlikely. Tristan was as opinionated as any outgoing, confident teenager, but the man couldn't be sure of that.

The man exchanged looks with him, letting him know that he knew this wasn't true. But he did not contradict him outright. "Humor me," he dared, lightheartedly.

The boy sighed, and threw out some crumbs. He was playing with the other man, but he also had the intelligence to know that he was also being played. "So you want to hear how I feel about my parents?" He paused, making sure he had the man's attention. He did. But not entirely because both men knew that whatever rant would come out of his mouth at this point would only be filled with half-truths covered by half-lies. "It's a joke."

"What is? The failure of their marriage?"

"Everything. That. This. My mother wants me to talk to you about it, but it's a joke. They've done nothing but fight for years. And only now she sends me to a shrink. Come on. Even you can see how stupid that is. When the complete meltdown of their marriage finally arrives, they just want to be able to say that they were prepared. That they prepared me for it. And then everyone can go on about what wonderful parents they are. How they were not self-involved and actually cared how I felt. Actually cared about my emotional and mental well-being." And amazingly, still no bitterness. It was almost as if Tristan had closed himself off from that part of his life, and had detached himself emotionally from the reality of his parents' failing relationship. His own defense mechanism.

"Uh, huh." Almost as if he didn't believe him. Or that he had heard the story so many times that it failed to interest. That Tristan was not unique.

Those two simple syllables annoyed Tristan. As if what he had to say wasn't worth listening to. "Aren't you going to write it down or something?" he mocked, gesturing absently in the man's general direction. His charcoal blue eyes had long since taken in every little detail of the spacious and comfortable office. A very rich office. And yet, homey and cozy. The man sitting opposite him also seemed as great a contradiction as Tristan felt. He had pried, caring, when he really shouldn't have. It worried Tristan. And it frustrated him. It made him want to question the man's sincerity. Because there was only one person that Tristan would not question, who could evoke that kind of heartfelt and unquestioning trust from him. That person was currently not in the room, though he carried her with him in his head constantly.

"Not unless you want me to," he informed. He made no move to reach for a writing utensil, and Tristan did not comment on it any further. "So you don't think they cared?"

"I don't know. Yes. Maybe they did. Maybe they still do. Fact remains, I've been pretty much independent for years. Ever since it started." Tristan's brow furrowed. It wasn't really something he wanted to discuss. For years he had come to the conclusion that his parents, though loving, had not provided him, nor were they inclined to, the amount of attention and affection that he desired. He had accepted it, the revelation, along with the knowledge that while he was loved, his parents were too busy to be anything other than just two people who lived in the same house and occasionally asked about his day. And he knew that he did not want to be that way with his own children. Not if he could help it.

"And you blame them for that."

"I don't blame them for anything," he informed, brushing it aside.

"But you do."

"No, I don't," he insisted, brusquely, his eyes fiery. 

"You wouldn't be so passionate if you didn't," the man pointed out, indifferently.

That seemed to get Tristan's attention. He immediately toned down his voice and made his face an impenetrable mask once again. Bored. Stifled. Untouchable. "I blame them for making it into a joke," he said, nonchalantly.

"What does that mean?" he prompted, curious. The boy had so many layers, he didn't know where to begin. Everything he said or did seemed to be a contradiction within itself. He had known many boys -- encountered many of them in this very office -- where he had been paid to do exactly what he was doing with this one. He recognized the act. The need to act tough, the feeling of being untouchable and superior. Only this one was different. Unlike some of the other boys, this one knew that it was an act, didn't even believe in part of it. He knew and he was desperately trying to deceive himself into believing the act wasn't an act.

The boy sighed, as if he had explained it a million times already, when in fact, it was probably the first time he had actually spoken of it to anyone. "The idea that they want to prepare me for the impending failure of their marriage. That's the joke. They've been fighting for years. On and off. There's nothing impending about it. It's not like it just happened out of the blue. They'll probably continue for the next couple of years." He gestured vaguely with his hand.

"So you think they aren't serious."

"Oh, no," he disagreed. "They're serious. I just wish they would be a little more serious. Stop dragging it out."

"What do you mean?"

Tristan gave him a look that said he did not like being asked that question. And in fact, the man didn't like asking the question. It was too trite. Too expected. Too cliché. "Look, I understand that I'm supposed to be the epitome of the perfect golden child. Okay. Fine. I get that. But sometimes I wish that they could just be like almost every other parent."

"Meaning?" He was interested. "In love? Like the Beavers?"

Tristan's blue eyes flashed indignation. "Hardly," he scoffed. It would have been a funny observation had they not been discussing his parents. 

"Then what?" He ignored the look of annoyance that flickered across the young man's face once again.

"Sure, they loved each other once. Maybe they still do. And I know, in their own demented and weird way, they love me. But this… dragging it out… is starting to get weary. Other kids… their parents fight, throw silverware, break things, then hurry along the destruction of their marriages by having countless affairs. Then they just end it. Divorce. Lawyers. Tabloids. Pre-nups. Settlements. Move on." Apparently, he considered his parents' inability to decide on the final fate of their marriage as capriciousness. And that could not be respected.

"So you consider your parents' way of dealing with their relationship as unusual?"

Tristan rolled his eyes this time. "The only thing unusual about the way they're dealing with it is the fact that they were able to keep it from making the gossip rounds at the country club."

"So you want your parents to divorce?" He raised a brow. 

He seemed to think about this for a brief moment. "What kid doesn't want their parents to stay together? I'm not advocating family breakups. Hell, who wouldn't want a nice and pat nuclear family of mother, father, kid. And even your occasional dog and white picket fence. I would just rather they make up their minds and leave me out of it."

"Okay… so you've kind of given me a glimpse into how you feel about your parents' marriage. Let's talk about your parents themselves. How do you feel about them?" he prodded, slowly, gently. Another trite and overused question by those in his profession, but a question that had to be asked nonetheless. All he needed was to hit another nerve to get him to open up.

But someone had forgotten to tell Tristan to play along. Or rather, he was perceptive enough to know he was being baited. And as a person who knew the rules to the game, he was not about to lose the fine control he held over his feelings and private thoughts. It would have been too easy. Besides, his parents probably wouldn't care how he felt about them, would probably just chalk it up to teenage angst if he said anything bad about them. "They're my parents," he said simply, returning to the bored and indifferent tone of voice that he had been exuding when he first entered the office.

"So we're back to this," the man concluded, matching Tristan's apathetic attitude. If it had been meant to faze Tristan, it didn't work. Tristan had played the game much too long to willingly walk right into a trap.

"I guess so." The sour mood had returned. He realized he had already said much more than he ever considered saying when he had first arrived.

"Okay…" The man tried a different topic. Hopefully something a little more interesting. "Let's talk about school then."

"Let's not," Tristan countered, jaw clenched.

What teenage boy didn't want to vent about school? He was a grown man and he still had countless things to rant about his high school experience. "You go to Chilton?" It was asked as a question, but he already knew the answer. Even if Tristan hadn't been wearing the uniform, he would've known. "It's a prestigious school."

Tristan offered a self-satisfied smirk. "You're perceptive. I can see why you charge so much."

He had to chuckle at that. The boy had a sense of humor when he wasn't feeling sorry for himself. "So school must be interesting. Private school and all."

The smirk faded. "I don't want to talk about school." His voice had gotten softer, more contemplative, as he glanced away. And yet, there was also indignation, as if the man wasn't worthy of hearing his true feelings about school. Or about anything else, for that matter. This boy kept his true feelings close to his heart and it would take considerable prodding to get him to open up. He wished he knew of an easier way than just bombarding the young man with constant questions, trying to keep him off-guard.

Tristan's insistence implied that he had touched another nerve. Bigger and more raw than the one he had touched earlier when Tristan had insisted on not being called by his last name. Interesting. "Well, what about girls? You must have something to say about them, a charming and good-looking young man such as yourself. What are the girls like at your school?"

"They're girls," he said again, simply. He hadn't even reacted to the compliment. Either he had heard it so many times that it had become irrelevant, or he didn't believe it and it wasn't important to him. He stifled a practiced yawn, trying to tell his companion that he was bored and that he would get nothing out of him. Nothing of importance, that was.

"What teenage boy doesn't like talking about girls?"

"I don't have anything interesting to say regarding that topic." Tristan shrugged and met his eyes, unblinking, challenging him to contradict him aloud.

He didn't. "So we're just going to sit here for the rest of the session and not talk," he asked rhetorically.

"Fine by me." Said in the typical spoiled rich boy tone. It was a tone that suggested Tristan was well versed in, but for some reason, sounded strange and uncomfortable coming from his mouth this time. He added another indifferent shrug.

"Your mother is paying good money for you to sit here then. Doesn't it seem like a waste?" he asked, seriously, paternally.

Tristan glanced up, as if he had just been offered the option he had been waiting for. "I could leave right now. You wouldn't have to tell anyone, and you'd still get your money."

"Now I couldn't do that."

"Honesty. Hmm. Strange." But there was a sarcastic tone to the musing.

He sighed. If Tristan was serious about not wanting to share, there really wasn't anything he could do. "I also can't stop you. If you want to leave, by all means, do so."

That was Tristan's cue. He immediately stood up to his lean six-foot frame, unfolding himself easily. Then just as assuredly and confidently, he ambled towards the closed doors. He gave a short wave, not expecting to turn back.

"Of course, I know you want to talk to someone. I'm that someone, Mr. DuGrey. You're not going to find a more willing or less judgmental ear than my own. And we don't even have to discuss your parents. Yes, they paid for these sessions, but in all honesty, we could very well just sit here in silence. But I have a feeling you have things on your mind that you can't comfortably share with anyone else. We can talk about whatever you want. Your parents, your family, friends, school, girls, sports, whatever. Everything said in this room stays in this room. Your parents pay me, but my loyalty is only to you."

That stopped Tristan in his tracks. Tempting. His hand was on the doorknob already, and he was contemplating stepping through. But the man had been partially right. There were things on his mind. And there really was no other person he could comfortably share them with. And it really had nothing to do with whether his thoughts and opinions stayed in the room, clouded in secrecy. The fact remained, he really didn't need a shrink. That was his mother's thing. All he really needed was a friend. He sighed and turned around slowly, allowing the man to see just how conflicted he was.

"I don't…" He didn't know, wasn't sure. It meant opening himself up. Opening himself up to a world of hurt and pain, and to facing the knowledge of everything that made him who he was. And everything he wanted to change about himself.

"We can start off slow," the seated man suggested, hopefully, seeing hints of progress.

Tristan sighed and begrudgingly returned to the couch. He slid easily back into it, slumping once again. "Very slow. And only if you don't make me lie down," he warned, trying to infuse as much apathy into his voice.

"Fine," he agreed, chuckling. The boy had an ease and confidence and humor that seemed at odds with the conflicted and brooding shell that sat before him. He was sure that in another lifetime, Tristan would have been ready with an easy smile and an infectiously personable and affable nature. It was further evidence that something had happened recently to him that had made him this way. He was certain that it had nothing to do with his parents' failing marriage. As Tristan had informed, and seemed to have accepted, they had been fighting for years. It was nothing new. And he had mostly become insensitive to it. So it must have been something else. Something recent and powerful enough to make him so. "You don't have to say anything until you're ready."

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He wasn't ready. But it had been ten or so minutes of relative silence. The older man noticed that while four feet still divided them, the distance had seemed to be less than at the start of the session. He watched as Tristan debated whether or not to actually share any of the thoughts that were invading his head. He was no longer slumped back into the seat. As a matter of fact, he was sitting up straight, practically at the edge of the couch, his elbows on his knees, his head cradled in his hands. He was staring at the floor, not meeting the other's eyes. And this was telling. Because it meant that ready or not, he was about to share something. He was only taking his time to decide exactly what pieces of information he would be sharing, and in what order.

Tristan lifted his head. "Is it bad to want your parents to just divorce and get it over with?"

He was startled by the suddenness of the question. And he found the young man studying him, trying to gauge how sincere he was going to be in offering an opinion, in helping him through his issues and his conflicts. There was something very intense about the way Tristan's eyes were so focused in their seemingly unfocused appearance. As if he were sleepily taking things in, and the older man was sure that this boy's intensity and eyes had gotten him more than one female admirer. The boy certainly did know how to use, and direct, his attractiveness and charm. "That depends."

"On what?" Tristan was showing his curiosity and questioning nature.

"Well, if it's been really bad for a few years, perhaps it would be better for the parties involved to consider finalizing a divorce. Wouldn't you think so?" he mused.

Tristan didn't say anything, just seemed to ponder it.

"If there was any reason to expect a reconciliation, then it would probably be premature to consider divorce. Of course, I'm not a divorce lawyer, so I wouldn't know."

Again, Tristan remained thoughtful.

He noted that the room had seemed to be getting warmer. And yet, the young man had not made any moves to slip out of his school blazer. Or even loosen his tie. Control. It was all about control. And right now, the young man had a firm grasp of it. "Do you want your parents to just get to the divorce?" he pried, gently, because there really was no other way to ask the question.

Tristan cocked his head to one side, thinking. "I'd rather they didn't. But the fighting… it gets loud sometimes. You learn to deal with it. An active social life helps," he admitted, almost ruefully. Apparently the boy did not spend much time at home. It implied a wealth of friends and a highly active dating life.

"So you'd rather they didn't," he concluded.

"Divorce isn't a big deal," Tristan informed, as if the older man should have known that about the marriage failure rate in their elite circles.

"It is for some people," he pointed out. Apparently, though he didn't necessarily condone divorce, the idea of a strong marriage seemed to be important, and appealing, to this young man. And he was almost positive that the boy wouldn't be able to tell him why. He could tell the boy why, but Tristan hadn't asked, nor was he interested in that train of thought.

Tristan bit his lip. "I'd rather they be happy." It was said quietly, reflectively.

"Happiness is a big deal to some people, too. You should be commended for wanting that for them. Most kids in your situation would rather think about themselves." A truth learned from experience and countless other stories. What Tristan had related wasn't something he heard often. Especially from children of the rich, who were usually only interested in whether their trust funds and allowances would remain intact, and whether they would be living with the parent who would supply the best lifestyle for them. But unlike those kids, this one seemed to be genuinely a nice and affectionate boy deep down underneath the act.

"Yeah, well." Tristan seemed almost embarrassed at this admission. As if he should have felt weak for thinking of someone other than himself.

He sighed, deciding to take a risk. "Tristan." The young man met his eyes, the sheepishness gone. Only curiosity remained. "What's really bothering you?"

There was a startled look on the young man's face, as if he had just been caught with his hand in a cookie jar. "What do you mean?"

"It's not your parents. You said it yourself. They've been fighting for years. And from your tone and body language, I already know that you're resigned to whatever they decide. You've gotten over it. Now tell me what's really going on," he chided.

Tristan's eyes flickered over various objects before finally settling on his companion's face. "Nothing."

"We've made so much progress."

"My parents…" he started, automatically. When all else failed, talk about the parents, blame it on the parents.

"It's not your parents, Tristan," he said, firmly. He needed to keep the boy's thoughts in line. He guessed that the boy had expected to be in control of every situation he had been placed in, but if they were going to get anywhere, he would have to take over the reins. "You said you didn't want to talk about your parents or their marriage, and yet, you were more than willing to share. Now, your grandfather, you said you didn't want to talk about because he has nothing to do with your parents' failing marriage. I understand that, and for all intents and purposes, you're right. But on the subject of school, you have been nothing but insolent." He paused to allow Tristan the opportunity to object. He didn't, only continued to meet his eyes with a curious and almost amused expression. It would have been infuriating if he hadn't expected it from him. "I'm taking a wild stab, but I'm guessing it's school that has you all conflicted. Now, unless you tell me that whatever is bothering you has absolutely nothing to do with something at school, then we'll find something else to talk about."

He could see Tristan debate whether or not to speak. The amusement remained sparkling in the boy's blue eyes, but he only glanced at his questioner, as if a mere afterthought. "I don't want to talk about school." But there was hesitation, suggesting room for compromise.

"No?" He raised a disbelieving brow.

"Not now," Tristan admitted, softly, thoughtfully.

"Okay." It was a step, and he accepted it.

The charming armor came back up. Too close too soon, and he had to step back. "I thought you were being paid to figure out how I felt about my parents."

"I'm paid to listen to you and to help you sort out whatever is bothering you. Not just about your parents."

"If people found out… I'm some hotshot at school. People envy me, look up to me, want to be me. I'm not supposed to be seeing a shrink. Tristan DuGrey isn't a therapy kind of guy." He bit his lip, perplexed.

"No one is going to know, unless you want them to. And please don't think of me as a shrink. I'm just a friend." Tristan looked dubious at this, but he continued. "And while you're here, I will not treat you like you're treated at school. I will respect you, but I will not worship you like the people at Chilton do. Here, you may feel free to be whatever personality you think you'd be most comfortable with. But I would much rather you just be yourself."

Tristan pursed his lips and rubbed his hand against the back of his neck. "And what if I don't even know what that is. To be myself."

"Do you honestly not know, or do you not want to admit it to yourself?" he questioned.

Tristan's head snapped up, and his hand moved from his neck to run through his hair, nervously. "I'm not sure."

"Then I guess we'll find out together, won't we?" He offered a comforting and reassuring smile.

Tristan looked doubtful, but nodded once.

****

End Part 1


	2. Chapter 2

****

Diddlee's note: Whew. Pooh hasn't killed me yet, but there is still time. Thanks for the reviews so far. And congrats to those of you who moved past your typical thoughts of a Tristan fic to venture into this one. For those begging for more, let me just say, the entire thing is written. I'm just posting one piece at a time to torture you. Plus she has a dozen other fics, all masterpieces, just waiting for you to read. For those of you who are innovative and want to track them down, you can find them on our site. (Obvious hint: check out my profile for that link. Warning: please do not attempt unless you have 4 or 5 hours of free time because once you start, you won't be able to stop). For the rest of you, sit back and enjoy it as it comes. 

Oh, and Pooh's comment when I told her people had reviewed: "They're still reading that? That's so freaking old." Yes, but sometimes the oldies are the goodies. Again, nothing from this point forward is mine. 

**__**

Note: Each Part contains an excerpt from different sessions between Tristan and his therapist. As a result, there may be no beginning or end to each session.

****

Part 2:

He sat, nervously fiddling with a paperweight he had picked up from the end table beside the couch. The other man watched him and said nothing, observing him. It had been a few days since their first meeting, and this time, the young man had changed out of his school uniform before arriving. He was wearing off-white cargo pants over black shoes, and a gray T-shirt underneath his blue button-down shirt. The top two buttons had been left undone to reveal the top of the T-shirt and the beaded choker around his neck. He was wearing a navy windbreaker, left unzipped. He hadn't bothered to take it off, which revealed that he was still closed off with the idea of sharing his innermost thoughts. But at least his casual attire suggested that he wasn't as uptight or as serious as the man had initially assumed due to the prep school uniform. In fact, he seemed like any other ordinary teenage boy -- large inheritance and amazing reservoir of charm notwithstanding.

"So do you want to talk?" He had to start the conversation or else Tristan would have been more than content to sit there silently for the rest of the session. "Tristan?"

Tristan sighed imperceptibly, and put the paperweight down on the end table. He shrugged and placed his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker. Closing off. But he offered a bright and almost genuine and good-humored smile. The other man had a feeling that this sincere smile was closer to the real Tristan DuGrey than the one he had seen earlier and so far. And he was almost positive that hardly anyone at his school ever saw this Tristan. It was a shame really, because the young man seemed more at ease like this than he had when trying to sustain his image. The softer side suited him much better.

"Sure, why not," he agreed easily, nonchalantly, gallantly.

"What would you like to talk about today?"

Another shrug. "Whatever." Laid-back. At least he was being receptive.

"Why don't you tell me about yourself."

The boy flinched slightly and seemed to hesitate, immediately unsure if this was how he wanted to spend the next hour. "Okay," he agreed, slowly. "What do you want to know?" There was suspicion and caution.

"Well, how are you in school?" he threw out, starting slow and innocently.

Tristan smiled slightly. "Pretty good. I'm in the top five percent of my class. I've never really had to work too hard for it, so I guess I'm lucky about that. The teachers love me."

"What about friends?"

"I've got lots of those. I've known most of the guys for years. Everyone at that school pretty much grew up with everyone else." So far he had only provided simple and brief answers. Answers that any boy could have rattled off without any thought. Answers that did not offer any insight into what made Tristan DuGrey tick.

"And girls?" 

Tristan hesitated for a beat and his observer took note of it for later. The charming grin returned. "I get my share." He shrugged. "I guess they tend to want me more than I've really had any use for them. It's silly really, the way they throw themselves at me sometimes. It's kind of a game for some of them."

"For some?" he quirked a brow, quizzically. "But not for all?" Tristan had delineated the two types of girls, and that had been interesting.

Tristan shook his head. "It takes two to play the game. There's no point in playing if the other one isn't in it."

"Or if they don't know the rules?" He already knew about the relationship games kids like Tristan played. Games they learned from their parents. And he knew what the boy would not admit. The main principle behind the game was this: everyone was fair game. Those who knew the game and abided by the rules, won; those who didn't, got hurt. It didn't matter if they wanted to play or not.

"Or that."

"And how are you at the game?"

Tristan chuckled, but not out of conceit. More out of the fact that he had to ask, that he didn't already know. "How do you think?"

He had to smile. The boy could be cocky, but at least he was obvious about it. He didn't try to hide it. And the more he was blatantly obvious about it, the more the man was beginning to think that it was only a ruse, used to keep strangers at bay from knowing his true feelings and thoughts. But even this was only a small aspect of the boy's personality. There was someone very worthwhile trying to get to the surface, but he had repressed it for some reason or other. Worthiness… niceness… those were weakness in their manipulative world, and he couldn't open himself up to that, not when he had a reputation to keep. "I think you're nothing but gentlemanly when it comes to those girls you like who don't play the game."

The smile faded a notch, as if Tristan hadn't wanted that little part of him to be known. But then, he recovered and the smirk grew. "Most girls play the game," he threw out, trying to bait his companion.

His companion returned the grin. Friendly. They were discussing the young man, but the young man seemed to be turning the tables on him and teasing him. "You don't have to try to charm me. We're just having an honest talk."

Tristan raised an amused brow, as if just now learning that his charm could be used as a weapon, a diversion tactic. "Shooting the breeze?"

He chuckled. "Yes." He paused, turning serious. "Is this how you shoot the breeze with your friends?"

The grin faded completely to a wry, self-deprecating smile. "We discuss girls, yes."

"But not like this," he prompted.

"No. Not like this," he revealed, the faint smile still lingering. He knew the man understood what he was saying. In front of friends, Tristan could never get away with discussing girls in anything other than a cavalier fashion.

"Because you have an image and reputation to keep at school. And you can't come off as anything close to a nice guy, a gentleman."

"It's not how it works," he agreed. And now Tristan seemed uncomfortable.

"Is that why you have no one to talk to? No one to talk to about what's really bothering you?"

"What's bothering me is that sometimes I wish they would leave me alone, and they don't."

"Who? Your parents?" The slightly disgusted look on the boy's face answered this question in the negative. No, the boy's parents were probably the only ones who did leave him alone, whether he wanted it or not. "Your friends?" he tried again.

He gave a half-shrug. "Sometimes. They look to me to be the lady-killer, the womanizer. And sometimes I'm not interested in doing it. There are more important things in life than being that."

"Like what?"

"Like… what are you, my career counselor?" And that effectively ended that branch of the conversation.

"And girls? Do you wish they would leave you alone sometimes?"

"Sure. I don't come running every time a girl dangles the possibility of sex in front of me. I'm not some kind of pervert." Tristan seemed to find this portrait of himself amusing, but did not laugh or even exhibit any form of a smile.

"But you don't say any of this to anyone? You don't share your feelings about this with anyone."

Tristan's hands came out of his pockets and were placed at his sides. He tried not to squirm under the intense gaze. "There's a code to follow. Conduct, rules, a method. It's all about power and control. The image you put up is what they see, what you control. Misdirection is key. To be yourself is opening yourself up to…"

"Pain?" He looked almost sympathetic. Because it was obvious that Tristan wanted to be true to himself, but didn't know where to begin. The boy was scared of being hurt, of feeling pain. Emotions were so much easier to control if one didn't have to worry about those.

"Maybe," he skirted, evasively.

"And you feel uncomfortable talking to your friends about this?"

"Friends?" Tristan looked thoughtful, as if he were trying to decide the meaning of the word. "If you can call them that. Real friendships aren't so high on the priority list, you know. They look towards me for leadership. They make me the center of attention. I'm responsible for taking the lead, for amusing them, for setting the standard."

"And you'd rather not be that person? Because that's what it sounds like to me."

"I don't know. I don't mind most of the time. It just makes me feel so dirty sometimes," he hedged. "And believe me, there are tons of guys who would love to have the honors. I could probably name a handful of them who would love to see me fall flat on my face."

"So you're not untouchable."

Nothing.

"Tristan?" he prompted, not sure whether the boy had heard him or not.

He had. He just didn't want to be lulled by a false sense of security into admitting something he would rather not. "No. I'm not." There was a hint of regret in the admission.

"But you once were," he prompted.

"I guess I once thought I was," Tristan admitted. The distinction seemed to be of importance. He glanced away, looking back at the paperweight, suddenly wary of what had passed from his lips.

"What changed?" They were finally getting there. To what made Tristan, Tristan.

Tristan swallowed and refused to meet his eye. "I don't know," he lied, easily. "A lot of things. Maybe nothing." He tried to cover up his uneasiness, but knew he was failing miserably.

He knew the young man was lying. Could see it in the way his body tensed and how he suddenly became quiet, contrite. "Are you lying to me?"

Tristan offered a wry grin. "What makes you say that?"

"Because I've had experience with teenage boys who come from wealthy families, who don't know what they want. Or would much rather not admit that they know exactly what they want. Especially when it doesn't correspond with what they should want, and what people expect of them. So they hide it behind charm and lies. So are you lying to me? Because if you are, it doesn't really matter to me, it just delays the process. Or are you just lying to yourself?"

Tristan didn't hesitate. "I'm not lying." But he was deliberately not specific in answering who he wasn't lying to.

The other man knew that that statement in itself was already a half-life and a half-truth. He did not push it. "What is making you miserable?"

"What makes you think I'm miserable," Tristan countered, haughtily, trying to regain control of the situation. He could charm and manipulate almost anyone, and it was important to be in charge again. Even if he wasn't sure he wanted to. Even if it meant closing himself off again.

"Because you've been pretty open so far. And it seems as if I touched a nerve."

Tristan rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm not."

"I think you are." He waited. Tristan did not contradict him, hadn't found it necessary to deign him a response. "It's not your parents. It's not your education. You seem to have a rather firm grasp and control over that. It's not your friends. You seem to understand the rules to that game. So what is it? I'm thinking before today you were pretty happy playing the game, keeping up the act. A guy's guy. A ladies' man. And now you look miserable. The game isn't enough anymore, is it? It's shallow and cheap. It's worthless and meaningless. What changed? Something must have happened to you. Something must have made you want to give it up. Throw every rule you've followed these past few years out the window."

"It's just your normal, everyday, teenage angst," Tristan replied, vaguely.

"Is it a girl?"

Tristan glanced at him disdainfully. "Why is the standard response always have to be about a girl. Why is it that whenever anything bothers a guy, it has to automatically be because of a girl."

The boy seemed to have lost respect for him, for even suggesting an answer and solution as trite as the one he had given, had attributed to his moroseness. But he was sure that it was, in fact, the answer. Because Tristan had initially refused to discuss school. And then once he had, he had steered clear of the girl topic, refusing to discuss that subject with anything close to seriousness. "Because it usually does," he replied, simply, matching Tristan's nonchalance.

Tristan glanced away. When he turned back, he seemed upset, but angrier with himself than with the other man for having suggested it. "It's _her_." He emphasized the pronoun. There was no disdain or bitterness towards this "her," only contemplation and reflection. And resignation.

There was silence as the man digested this information. Only the sound of the grandfather clock ticking off the seconds in the background punctuated the silence. The man took a deep breath. For once, he wished that Tristan had been right. That the problem hadn't involved a girl. "Tell me about her," he said, quietly, almost inaudibly. He wasn't sure if Tristan had heard. But the boy had. He heard everything that had anything to do with her.

"She makes me crazy. What right does she have to do that? She's a nobody."

He watched as Tristan stood and began pacing in front of the couch. His jaw was clenched, his fist balled, and he paced without really seeing where he was going.

"You don't really mean that," he chided gently.

Tristan paused in mid-step, biting his lip. "No. No, I don't. She's not a nobody. She was, but she's not anymore. But either way, she has this incredible way of driving me absolutely crazy. I'd hate her if I didn't…" Want her? Need her? Like her so much? Love her? He stopped in mid-sentence, seemingly catching himself before he could reveal something he had yet to admit to himself.

For the boy's sake, the other man pretended not to have heard. "Is it because she won't play the game? Won't follow the rules?"

Tristan thought about this for a few minutes, but he already knew the answer. "She hates the game. And because of that, she hates me." He stopped again, frustrated. "No, she doesn't hate me. Not really."

The man took a deep breath. "Why don't we start at the beginning?"

Tristan ran a hand through his hair, making it even messier than it had been a few minutes ago. "She was new. And that made her interesting. See, pretty much everyone at Chilton grew up together, went to school together for years. It was almost like everyone became your sibling. It's hard to develop romantic inclinations towards someone you've watched grow up." He glanced at the floor and sighed. "She was different. And not because she didn't have money. Because she kind of does. But money isn't an issue. It never was with her."

"So she was new and interesting. And she caught your attention. And you tried to play the game with her," he concluded.

"I guess I came on too strong, preying on her innocence. It was fun." He looked embarrassed at this admission. The other man didn't say anything, wouldn't judge him for it. "Her resistance. Her annoyance with me. Her frustration with me. It was different because no other girl did that. She didn't roll over at my feet. So I made her miserable because sparring with her gave me such a rush. It made me happy. Is that wrong? To want to get a rise out of her because I enjoyed being surprised by what would come out of her mouth? And because I liked the way she made me feel when she called me on it?"

"There are better ways to let a girl know you like her," he pointed out.

Tristan frowned. "I didn't like her. Not in that way. Not initially. She was a…" He couldn't seem to find the right word to describe what she had been. Or rather, he didn't want to admit it. Because doing so would make him out to be a bigger asshole than he thought he had a right to be.

"Conquest?" He provided the word for him.

Tristan glanced at him sharply, pained. "Yeah," he admitted, quietly. "That."

"When did it change?"

Tristan started pacing again. For some reason, he was restless, couldn't sit still. And the older man did nothing to stop him. He was sharing, after all. "I don't know. I can't pinpoint it. I can't tell you if it was with a look or a specific word, or even a moment. All I knew was that all of a sudden, she was always on my mind. I couldn't stop thinking about her. She got under my skin and I let her. I was in too deep before I realized it. And I can't turn back no matter how hard I try. And I'm not even sure I want to, if I could."

"Did you try to tell her?" his companion asked, as if it had all been that simple. But he hadn't been there. Hadn't seen what Tristan had done to her. Wouldn't understand that even if he did tell her, there was no way to guarantee that she wouldn't laugh in his face. That it wouldn't just end up being worse than how things stood now.

"I tried to ask her to the Chilton winter formal."

"What happened?" he asked, quietly, respectfully.

Tristan offered a self-effacing smirk. "My reputation and actions preceded me. I guess what they say about first impressions really is true."

"Tristan." He had noticed this about the boy. He tried so hard to keep up the image that he passed off in the halls of Chilton. But as his comfort level rose with the other man, his self-deprecating humor began to show itself. It was odd coming from a self-proclaimed hotshot like Tristan.

Tristan didn't need to be warned. "I went to ask her, practically with my heart on my sleeve, and she turned me down. Rejected me cold. I suppose I deserved it. And I guess she didn't really believe the offer to be sincere. But still. She shot me down, telling me that there was no possible way she would ever go out with me, unless she had some massive head injury, and probably not even then."

"And how did that make you feel?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.

Tristan gave him a knowing look, silently tsking him for employing the trite question. His companion smiled back in agreement. "It made me feel like crap," Tristan admitted. "It stung, and it made me feel bitter. Towards her. And it made me want to knock her down from whatever high road she thought she was on, compared to me. And I didn't want to feel that way. Not to her. Not about her." He sighed. "I guess I kind of knew something was going on with me. Because of her. I never had to worry about girls turning me down before. And her rejection hurt like hell."

"I'm sorry," he said, genuinely, seeing how hurt the boy had become.

Tristan offered another wry smile. "Don't be. Because it gets better. You haven't heard how I fell flat on my face and completely humiliated myself in front of the entire school." There was a self-mocking sarcasm there.

"I wouldn't expect a hurt sixteen year old boy to react in any way other than stupid."

There was a hint of teasing, and Tristan appreciated that. "I saw them."

"Who?" he asked curiously.

"Her and her boyfriend." The word "boyfriend" rolled off his tongue with a sour aftertaste, and was said with a great deal of sarcasm, as if saying the actual name would have given the other boy undue respect. Respect and honor he did not deserve. "At the dance. I couldn't stop watching them. Seeing them happy," he admitted, angry with himself, remembering his loss of control.

"Because you wanted to be him. In his place. With her," he concluded.

Tristan met his eyes for a minute, not saying anything. He didn't have to. The pain, the adoration, the longing and wistfulness were all plainly sketched on his face. "He had her on this pedestal. The way he was looking at her. And I understand that because I think in a way, even though I wouldn't admit it at the time, so did I."

"But you don't anymore," he finished for him.

Tristan shook his head. "No. Because she's a real person. She has flaws like the rest of us, and that's what makes her so perfect."

"So how did you fall flat on your face?" he inquired. He was almost saddened to hear that Tristan had failed to win the girl over. From what he had shared so far, Tristan had imparted a more mature and worldly understanding of the girl than he had thought possible coming from a boy like him. Or rather, from the attitude and image that boys like him exuded.

Tristan looked up at the ceiling. "She was looking at him like he was some god or something." He furrowed his brow and looked at his hands, as if not really seeing them. "So I wanted to take him down a couple of notches, show that he was human and he wasn't good enough. I tried to goad him into a fight."

"Did it work?" He knew it hadn't. Because boys like Tristan didn't do fights. They were more likely to fight with words than with fists, unless properly provoked. But knowing Tristan these past few weeks, he knew that the boy would have had no qualms entering into a fistfight and even holding his own. Because boys like Tristan were passionate. And passion often got the best of them.

Tristan didn't even have to think about it. "No," he replied, bluntly.

****

End Part 2


	3. Chapter 3

****

Diddlee's Note: Thanks to all of you reading and reviewing this. Sorry it took me so long to get this part up. I hope to keep it coming pretty steadily. And now, on with Pooh.

__

*** Note: Each Part contains an excerpt from different sessions between Tristan and his therapist. As a result, there may be no beginning or end to each session.

****

Part 3:

"Why do you keep referring to her as 'she'?" he asked, curious.

Tristan shifted in his seat, not really wanting to answer the question. He was casually attired again, having come that day in blue jeans, sneakers, and a blue T-shirt. He was beginning to resemble more and more a frustrated and confused teenager. "Because." He was being insolent again. He hadn't decided how much he wanted to share with this man -- this man who he had been revealing his deepest fears and feelings to for weeks, but was, for all intents and purposes, still a stranger. Only now, he was a stranger armed with information about Tristan. Trust was a hard thing to learn to accept and to give. Especially when there was so much to lose. So much pain affiliated with trust.

"Does she have a name?" he asked innocently.

"Yes," Tristan replied simply. But he did not go into detail. He did not say her name.

"Are you afraid that by saying her name… giving your problem a name… you'll give her power over you?"

Tristan rubbed his hands together. It was a nervous habit. Rubbing his hands and rubbing his neck. He had noticed these things and knew that when Tristan did them, he was getting close to a truth. "Her name is power."

He sat back in his armchair. "What does that mean?"

"When I first met her, I refused to call her by her name. I gave her a name. Mary." Tristan squirmed, revealing this part of his past. This distasteful aspect of his history with her.

"Why do you think that is?"

Tristan frowned, not wanting to revisit the "Mary" days. "Because it was easier to play the game if there was no real emotional connection. Because it annoyed her and frustrated her to no end. Because it gave me power and made her inferior."

"And?" He sensed it. There was another reason.

"Because she was special."

He frowned. "That's not it," he told the boy, matter-of-factly.

"Because… because saying her name would give her the power over me and not the other way around."

The man merely nodded and made an assenting noise to himself. Tristan did not say anything. He didn't know if talking about this, about what was bothering him, was supposed to make him feel better. Because it hadn't so far. It only made him feel worse. Because he was made even more aware of the torment he had initially put her through. And now, not only did he know and she know, someone else knew as well. It didn't seem fair that this persona of him being a jerk would precede him from now on.

hr

"I don't think I should see you anymore." He was matter-of-fact and blunt. And his face was serious.

"If you say so."

"I'm not the kind of guy who goes and sees a shrink. I don't need therapy. I'm relatively well-adjusted. I'm not crazy. All I needed was a good venting session, and I can do that by myself."

"I'm not your shrink. I'm a friend," he reminded gently. And over the past few sessions, he had indeed become that.

"Whatever," Tristan shrugged, neutrally. Friends didn't pay others to be friends. It went against the definition of friendship.

"You know, it's not just crazy people who need therapy. Sometimes people just need to talk to someone who's willing to listen. Someone who has no hidden agenda."

The walls were coming up fast. "It's my mother's thing. It's the in thing to do. I don't want to do it. It's not important that I conform." But he had. Because almost everything he did at school, almost every act he had pulled so far, was because others had expected them from him.

"Okay. It's always been your decision to walk away," he informed, slowly.

"Yeah," Tristan agreed, quietly, not entirely believing him, but thankful for the out.

hr

"Rory."

"What?" 

Tristan had come back after all, looking fresh and confident. He had been smiling when he walked in, as if they were old friends, ready to play a round of impromptu basketball. Only, as soon as he sat down, the confident smile had faded and he resumed looking uncertain and doubtful. His two weeks away had seemed to relax him, put him back at ease. But now, he seemed to be burdened with his thoughts again. He had sat down, picked at the corner of the couch cushion and not said a word until now, taking him completely by surprise as the other man wondered whether they would have to start all over again with the petulance and resistance and sullenness.

"Her name is Rory." It was said in a quiet and thoughtful manner, with a hint of respect and awe and adoration. 

"So she does have a name," he joked lightly. Even if he hadn't heard part of the story already, he would have been able to pick up on just how Tristan felt about the girl from those four words.

Tristan grimaced. "Yeah."

****

End Part 3


	4. Chapter 4

****

Updated: 3/12/02

Diddlee's Note: See, I told you you would like it. I thought I would start putting the date on the parts when I upload them, because there may be some days I upload more than one part. And since there are no chapter names, it's difficult to remember if you've read the previous part. If that makes sense.

Now to speak on behalf of Pooh. This story parallels season one of GG, and is not the typical fiction that will change events as they happened on the show. This story only contains 2 characters who will not stray from the doctor's office. Basically it's a season 1 companion. So if you're expecting to see Rory bolt in the door and have her way with Tristan, I'll give you a head's up. It's not going to happen. Now, on with the show.

****

*** Note: Each Part contains an excerpt from different sessions between Tristan and his therapist. As a result, there may be no beginning or end to each session.

****

Part 4:

"She thought I wasn't trying hard enough, but I've done nothing but try for her," he admitted ruefully. "Okay… so my heart wasn't entirely in it, but I made the effort. That should have counted for something."

"What did you try, Tristan?" When the young man didn't answer, he tried again. "Tristan?"

"So it didn't work out the way either of them wanted it to, or thought it should have. But it wasn't my fault. Not really. And it wasn't really her fault." He glanced at him, desperation and confusion evident in his eyes. As if he needed reassurance that he was wrong. As if there had to be a pat answer to everything. But mostly, to this. "But it has to be someone's fault right?"

"Someone's fault regarding what, Tristan?" he asked, thoroughly confused.

"Rory. Me. Paris," he revealed, absently, lost in his own thoughts.

"Paris? Who's Paris?" Here was a new wrinkle.

"Paris. I've known her since kindergarten. We've been in practically all the same classes ever since, but we've never been friends. Not really."

"Why not?" It would have seemed that by definition, they would have been friends if they had known each other for that long.

"She's never really been my type," he answered truthfully.

"I didn't know that friends had to have a type."

"They don't. But just because we've known each other for practically forever doesn't mean we're intimate or even friendly."

"Why not?"

Tristan glanced up, as if surprised that the man didn't know the answer to that one. "I don't really have female friends." The apparent shock at having to explain that was clear in his voice. And as soon as he admitted it, he seemed to ponder the statement. Why didn't he have any real female friends? It wasn't like he spent all his time hanging out with his male friends. And even if he did, it surely didn't mean it precluded any females from the group.

"Why not?" he repeated. It seemed that the more Tristan opened up, the more enigmatic he became. There were so many parts to his logic and reasoning that even he – the man who was supposed to help him sort it all out and piece it all together -- felt at a loss sometimes. He was sure that there were certain things that Tristan was still not sharing with him, but he doubted it would have made a difference in clearing up the mystery. He wondered how a boy as young as Tristan was able to become so complex. His actions pointed to adolescent behavior, but his motivations pointed elsewhere. And with each session, he seemed to be maturing, adding more confusion, and complicating everything.

Tristan glanced at him curiously. "Girls don't really befriend me just to be friends." He seemed to find his own statement amusing. "So what's the point." Not a question. More like resignation. Something he had come to terms with a long time ago.

"And you can't be friends with a girl just because she likes you?"

"It gets in the way. For them. Because they'll almost expect me to ask them out eventually."

"And what about for you?"

Tristan hung his head, then looked up. The faint, deprecating smile was back. "It makes it kind of hard to be friends with a girl when she blushes every time I talk to her. Or when she quivers when I'm near. Or if she's constantly checking me out."

He grinned. The boy was being facetious. "Why?"

"Too much undue pressure on me to please?" Tristan suggested, tongue in cheek.

"No, really," he prodded, though he was still smiling.

Tristan shrugged. The smile disappeared. "I guess it's because that's not what I want in a friend. Friends should be there for one another. There shouldn't be anything sexual about it."

"Why not?"

Tristan frowned. "You know, I'm starting to get really sick of those two words."

"So am I." His look seemed to advise Tristan that the sooner he was upfront with the both of them, the sooner those words would disappear from his vernacular.

Trsitan glanced away. How could he be candid when even he didn't know what he wanted, other than the obvious. "Even when I don't want it, girls have a way of trying to hit on me. Trying to catch my attention."

"And that's bad? I would think that as a sixteen year old guy, you'd be drooling over that kind of attention."

"It makes me uncomfortable," Tristan admitted, shyly. And before his companion could ask why, he quickly answered. "And because not everything is about sex. Sometimes girls think that just because I'm popular, or good-looking, or rich, that all I'm after is sex. It can get annoying. And it's not true," he insisted.

"Tristan, you've both scared me -- by making me believe that there are teenage boys out there who don't solely let their sexual organs think for them -- and reaffirmed my faith in the potential of the same teenage boys to mature beyond adolescence." He provided the young man with an encouraging and paternal smile.

"If you say so." Tristan's brow furrowed. He didn't think his actions and thoughts could speak for anyone but himself. And even then, they weren't doing a good job for himself either.

"So I take it that Rory isn't one of those girls."

"No."

"What about Paris?"

Tristan shook his head. "Definitely not."

"But she does like you."

"She's had a crush on me for years. I guess I just didn't realize how big it was," he admitted, sadly.

He let Tristan wallow in his own thoughts for a few minutes. The boy was frowning, trying to piece together everything that had happened so far. Trying to find some comfort in whatever his actions had been. Trying desperately to tell reassure himself that he could not have foreseen all the trouble that had occurred between Rory, Paris, and himself. The man watched as his expression went from confusion to distress. Then he jumped in and changed the subject.

"So tell me about your girlfriend," he prompted, suddenly.

"Summer?" Tristan frowned. That was one subject he was almost positive he did not want to discuss. What was the point? He already knew all he wanted to on the subject of Summer.

"Yes."

Tristan's eyes darted to him, then away. He didn't want to talk about Summer. "I liked her," he said simply, as if she had not been a big deal. And in fact, she hadn't. Not really. Not in the ways that mattered.

"But you don't now."

Tristan shrugged. "I don't know. I really liked her while we were going out."

"Because she played the game," he provided. As if that were all it took to gain Tristan's affections.

"Because she was the kind of girl that I usually dated," Tristan added for no apparent reason, though he was giving his head a dismissive shake.

"And because Rory had a boyfriend who made her happy. So you moved on."

Tristan's eyes flickered to him. "Well, if you know the story, then you don't need to ask me." A resurgence of irritability.

"Did you move on?" he surged ahead, ignoring the dirty look on Tristan's face.

Another shrug. Back to bored indifference. Tristan's moods were ephemeral and changed quickly, making him hard to grasp and understand, but it was exactly the way he wanted it to be. "I guess. I guess I thought that I had moved on. Had accepted that she was with him, and that there was nothing I could do about it. And I guess I thought that time would make it hurt less; make me forget about her in that way. Make me stop feeling that way about her." He said the word "him," referring to Rory's boyfriend, much in the same way he had initially called him her "boyfriend." Disdain. Little respect. He had refused to call him by name, refused to give him individuality.

"Did it?" He quirked a brow.

"I started dating Summer." Tristan had effectively evaded the question. He knew it. They both did.

"Why Summer?" he asked casually. There was always a reason. He had come to know that about Tristan. Even if he said he didn't know why, or that there was no logic behind his actions, there always was. He just either chose to ignore them or could not admit to them.

"We've already gone through this," Tristan reminded, bored.

"Let's do it again," he suggested, chidingly.

Tristan played along. "Because she was fun. Because she was pretty. Because she was outgoing and popular and experienced."

"And no other girls were like that?" 

Tristan didn't like the suggestive tone of his voice. As if he were trying to imply something that Tristan should have known. Or that he knew that not only was Tristan hiding something, but exactly what that something was. "Sure. There are tons of girls like that at Chilton." The irritation was creeping back into his voice.

"So what made Summer special?" He was certain he knew. And he was certain Tristan had an idea that he knew. And that Tristan thought he was only baiting him, needling him into saying it out loud.

"Because she…" Tristan stopped himself. Because she reminded him of Rory. In a very roundabout and indistinct way. But Summer made it easy to pretend.

He nodded, annoying Tristan further with that action. Tristan didn't say anything. And if Tristan wouldn't say it, then he would. Someone had to put out there in order for them to tackle it. "Summer reminded you of Rory."

"No." Only, she had.

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End Part 4


	5. Chapter 5

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Uploaded: 3/14/02

Diddlee's Note: Thank you all for being so kind. I keep copying and pasting your reviews so that Pooh can see them since she still doesn't come here. She of course thinks you're all a bunch of liars because she can't see how anyone can stand to read that entirely too long fic. Pshaw. And she won't give me any more quotes because she says I'm embarrassing her. Whatever. Anyway, just to reiterate, this fic is not mine. I sometimes feel from the reviews that you think it is, and I in no way deserve credit for this piece of work. I'm going to post 2 parts tonight since I'm going out of town for the weekend. As always, if you can't wait, the entire thing is up on our site (check my profile). But continue to spread the word here of the masterpiece that is this fiction.

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*** Note: Each Part contains an excerpt from different sessions between Tristan and his therapist. As a result, there may be no beginning or end to each session.

Part 5:

They were back to this. They had made so much progress, but like usual, whenever Tristan felt they had made too much progress, he took them back a few steps. Deliberately sabotaged any hopes of getting to the roots of his problems. Tristan knew what his problem was. Rory. Only he wouldn't blame her. And he didn't want to be told that she was the one causing him pain. Because in reality, she wasn't the problem. He was. And he certainly didn't want to be told that he was causing his own pain. Because if that were the case, the only logical solution would be to give her up, an option he was not willing to consider. Ever.

So Tristan sat in the corner of the couch and looked everywhere but at his companion. He had been in this office enough times to have examined every piece of furniture in detail at least three times. And now, he didn't even see them anymore, looking through them instead of at them. His companion did not hurry him, did not try to force him to open up.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" Tristan glanced up, waiting for him to elaborate. He did. "You mentioned in passing that there had been a party at a classmate's house."

Tristan stared at something in the distance. "Madeline's house. She's a friend of Paris," he said absently.

"And you took Summer."

"Yeah."

He couldn't tell what Tristan's eyes were focused on, if anything. While he stared into the distance, his eyes had turned hazy and unfocused. As if he were examining a picture in his head rather than in the room. "Was it a good party?"

"Probably," he answered, dismissively. Whatever he was seeing in his head, it was preferable than what he would have seen in the office. Then, as if realizing what he had said, he glanced up briefly to meet his companion's eye. "Yeah. It was a party. You know." There really hadn't been anything special about Madeline's party. Other than what had occurred.

"Did something happen there?" He knew something had. And he was almost positive that it had had something to do with Rory. The boy always became reticent whenever the topic of the girl came up.

"We broke up," Tristan revealed simply.

"Who is we?"

Tristan glanced up, slightly annoyed. "Me and Summer," he answered, caustically, as if there shouldn't have been any other answer. As if there wouldn't have been any other correct answer.

"But that's not what you took back with you from the party," the man prodded. It was obvious from the young man's tone of voice that, though the breakup had hurt him, it hadn't been the utmost thing on his mind during the party. Or even afterwards. Whatever thoughts had consumed his mind… they did not involve Summer.

Tristan stared at him, wondering if he should be serious or sarcastic. He chose the easy way out. "Oh, no. I left my pride and dignity and public humiliation from the breakup back at the party and immediately found another girl to take home with me." He wasn't smiling.

The man quirked a smile. "So tell me about the breakup." He would ignore the sarcasm for now.

Tristan rolled his eyes. "It was a breakup. I've been through those. Not exactly the way it usually happens, but still, after awhile, it stops hurting."

"What was different about this one?" The man leaned forward in his chair as Tristan's eyes began to wander again.

The boy was agitated. "She broke up with me, okay? In front of everyone. That's what's unusual. I'm usually the one who does the breaking up. I'm usually the one who has a different girl on my arm every week. Relationships don't usually last that long, to the point where either one of us feels like there's actually a need for a breakup song and dance." He didn't seem bitter at all. Just matter of fact.

"Tristan. Why did this relationship last so long?"

Tristan pursed his lips, glancing away. "I don't know. I was just being addle-minded and forgot that Summer had passed her time limit?" he offered.

The man smiled gently, and Tristan wanted to wipe the sympathetic look off his face. Empathy was the last thing he wanted. "I don't make any claims to knowing you very well, Tristan. But there's one thing I can definitely say. And that is that you are not absent-minded. There's always a reason. Whether you want to admit it or not."

Tristan stared at the carpet and his fingers picked at the couch cushion. "There doesn't always have to be," he reminded, sourly.

"Why not?"

"Because it makes me sound a lot smarter than I really am. And I'm not. I think everything I've done so far has proven that," he revealed, pitifully.

"That's not true," the man assured him. "You're a teenage boy. When I was your age, I did much dumber things than you did. Why would you think that?"

Tristan sighed dejectedly. "Sometimes I don't want to think. I'm sick of trying to over-think things. I just want to…"

"Feel?" he suggested.

Tristan met his eyes and then averted them quickly. "Summer enjoyed making me the laughingstock of the party. She loved that she got away with cheating on me during the party with some other guys, and having me chase her around like some lovesick puppy. She loved it."

"Why were you chasing her around like that? You said you liked her, but that she really wasn't any different than any of the other girls you usually date." The man resisted the urge to sigh exasperatedly at him. Again, Tristan had managed to avoid answering the question.

"I guess I would have liked for that relationship to have worked," he mused, quietly.

"Tristan."

Tristan met his eyes, blue eyes shining with something akin to sadness. "I wanted it to work," he admitted, ruefully. As if he knew there was no logical explanation for it. As if it went against everything he believed in and would have liked.

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End Part 5


	6. Chapter 6

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Uploaded: 3/14/02

Diddlee's Note: Nothing witty to say since this is the second part uploaded in a row. Plus I never say anything witty anyway..

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*** Note: Each Part contains an excerpt from different sessions between Tristan and his therapist. As a result, there may be no beginning or end to each session.

Part 6:

"So tell me about Paris."

Tristan had been sitting at the edge of his seat, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face. He was tired. School that day had been exhausting. He had had four exams, had stayed up all night studying for them. Normally, he wouldn't have needed to pull an all-nighter, but he had been so distracted. With his sessions. With her. And every time he tried to concentrate on his books and his notes, his mind kept wandering. To her.

Tristan's face appeared above his hands, withdrawn. "What?" He hadn't heard the question. His mind had wandered back to each of the classes that he shared with Rory. He remembered the way she had bent over her exams, absently chewing on the tip of her pencil. He remembered how the brown hairclip she had used, to keep her hair from her face, hadn't been able to keep stray wisps of soft brown hair from falling into her eyes as she concentrated on her exam. He remembered…

"Paris. Tell me about her."

Tristan let out a deep breath, and leaned back against the soft cushions of the couch. "I've already told you. We've known each other for years. Since kindergarten practically," he said, vaguely, bored.

The man chuckled softly, as if dealing with a slow child. Tristan was too tired to bother with a condescending smirk. "I meant… What happened with Paris." He spoke quietly, but firmly. He knew Tristan's mind was wandering. And he had an inkling towards what those thoughts were wandering to. Or rather, to _whom_ his thoughts were wandering to.

Tristan sighed heavily and looked up at the ceiling. Paris was a friend, he supposed. But even if she weren't, what happened had hurt. Not so much him, but still, he remembered the pain on her face, and he knew that he had been the one to put it there. No, he was remembering incorrectly. There was pain and anger there, but he hadn't been the target. She had directed it at Rory. And because of that, it had been his fault.

"Rory suggested that I date a girl with substance. Someone different from the ones I usually date." He said it as if it weren't a big deal. But the man noticed that there was hurt and pain in the young man's eyes. He was certain that the girl had suggested someone other than herself, and that had probably thrown the boy for a loop. Had probably crushed him.

"Someone like Paris and not like Summer," the man offered.

Tristan nodded, impatient. He didn't want to talk about Paris. "Yeah." He didn't want to talk about Summer either. But most importantly, though he would have loved to talk about Rory with someone else, to be able to adore her freely and publicly, he wasn't sure how he felt about sharing his feelings with this man.

"Uh huh." The man was making mental notes. And his tone of voice suggested that he had already figured it out before Tristan had even confirmed the Paris link. As if he knew Rory well enough to have known what she would have said to Tristan. _Had_ said to him during their conversation on the bench.

Tristan shook his head, irritated. "What does that mean?" he asked, irked. 

"Rory suggested that you date someone with substance. She suggested Paris. So you did." He said it as if he knew exactly what had happened. As if he had been there on the bench with them. 

"Yes," Tristan agreed, slowly, reluctantly. He wasn't sure he was going to like where the man was taking this conversation. He knew he wasn't going to like it because he knew the man would be right.

"You went out with Paris because _Rory_ told you to, and her opinion means a lot to you." Pause to let Tristan digest the information. "You did it for Rory. Not for Paris. Not for yourself."

Tristan blinked. Then the defense mechanisms came up. "You make it sound like an accusation," he remarked, petulantly.

"It's more like a fact, Tristan. Can you deny it?" He raised a brow and waited for the stream of denial and sarcastic remarks.

None were forthcoming. Tristan didn't say anything. And he didn't have to. They both knew the answer.

"But Paris liked you. And she thought that one date would lead to more," the man continued, without any encouragement.

Tristan shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. "I didn't lead her on."

"Okay."

"I didn't lead her on," he insisted, firmly. 

"I believe you."

"I just… She just…" He stopped in frustration, running his hand through his hair. He was so tired, and the last thing he wanted to do was analyze what had happened between him and Paris. "It should have been enough that we had fun together."

"I understand. But could part of the disappointment -- the fact that it hadn't gone the way either one of you wanted it to -- have anything to do with the fact that you went out with Paris specifically, and solely, because Rory had suggested the idea. Your heart obviously wasn't in it."

Tristan relaxed slightly. "The thing is, you're right. I didn't have my heart in it. How could I? Never in my life would it have occurred to me to date Paris. It has nothing to do with looks, or intelligence, or any of that. She's Paris. She's smart and she's cute, I guess. But I've known her forever. And the surprising thing was, I had a lot of fun with her that night. Honestly. But it simply made me realize that I only liked her as a friend. Nothing more." He bit his lips. "I can't help it."

"I'm sure she would have been disappointed to hear that, but in time…"

"I shouldn't have done it," Tristan interjected.

"Well, if you hadn't gone out with her, you might not even have come to the conclusion that the two of you could be friends," the man chided gently.

"No," Tristan shook his head, upset. "I kissed her. After the date. I shouldn't have done it."

The man pursed his lips. "No. Perhaps you shouldn't have…"

Tristan sighed. "It was reflex, you know. Something I do at the end of dates. And she looked like she wanted so much for me to…"

"It's probably not the worse thing you could have done…" The man was trying to make him feel better.

Tristan would have none of it. "I let it slip that Rory had been the one to suggest that I ask her out," he blurted.

The man was taken aback. "Why would you do that?" he asked, after a momentary span of silence. 

"I don't know," Tristan said, anxiously.

"Typical teenage boy stupidity or calculated move, Tristan?" He was trying not to pass judgement.

"I don't know," Tristan repeated. And he didn't. "I don't think it was…" But he stopped himself, because he really wasn't sure. He looked upset with himself.

"So Paris was angry with you."

Tristan's glance went to the floor. "No. She wasn't. Not really. She blew up at Rory instead," he mumbled.

"What?" But he had heard.

"She directed her anger at Rory. And I think that it really messed up their friendship." Tristan looked miserable.

"Paris will get over it."

"Maybe." But he looked doubtful. "And then Rory…" He met the man's eyes and the man nodded for him to continue. "She was upset with me. She accused me of not trying hard enough. So I told her. I didn't know what else to do. She was so angry with me. And I just wanted to make it better. I just wanted to calm her down. I just wanted to…"

"What did you tell her?" The man's ears perked up. How had the boy sabotaged his own chances again?

No reply.

"Tristan?"

A sigh. "I told her that it wouldn't be fair to keep dating Paris because I liked someone else."

"Rory."

Tristan nodded, slowly, swallowing, as if it were too hard to do so. "Yes."

"So she knows." This came as a surprise. Had the girl turned him down after all? He was sure that if she had, Tristan might not have come back. Or rather, he might have felt more of a need to vent his frustrations.

Tristan gave a short and harsh laugh. "No, and that's the funny thing. She's so smart, so gorgeous, and yet, she's absolutely clueless. So incredibly dense… she thought I was talking about Summer." He stressed Summer's name with a mocking tone. Upset, he rubbed the back of his neck. "But I've been over Summer," he said, reflectively, quietly, mostly to himself.

"And you didn't have the heart to tell her she was wrong."

Tristan glanced up. "No."

"Why not?"

"What's the point?" He made a noise with his throat. "In a way, I wish it had worked out." He paused to collect his thoughts. "I wish that Summer hadn't been who she was, and that the relationship had worked out. I wish that I had been able to see Paris as something other than friends. Feel something more for her than what I do. I wish it had been able to work. I wish I could have lied to her and to myself that I wanted it to work, even if it wouldn't have been fair to either one of us. It would have been easier for everyone involved if I had been just a little more hurt by Summer, or if I had been able to fall hard for Paris." His jaw was clenched and his fist balled. He knew he couldn't change any of those things, but he could blame himself for them. Even though he really wasn't at fault. Even though there really was no way he could expect to change his feelings to conform to what everyone wanted him to feel. He sighed deeply. "I just wish things could have worked out the way Rory had thought it could and the way that Paris had hoped it would." He was so tired of blaming himself, and yet, he knew of no other way to sort through his conflicted feelings. He could go on and on about how he wished things had ended up differently between himself and Paris, but in the end, he knew that it would be a lie. And he hated that. He wished he could be who everyone wanted him to be, but he couldn't. Hell, he didn't even know who _he _wanted to be.

"Tristan, why didn't you tell her?" He brought the topic back because he knew that Tristan didn't want to answer it.

"Who?" He asked, frustrated. He wanted to go home, crawl under the covers, and not resurface until graduation day. It would be so simple…

"Rory." The man's insistent voice jarred him back to reality. Because they both needed to know the answer, and because he had said the magic word.

"Because she doesn't get it." Tristan frowned. How could she not get it? That was what he couldn't understand. Was he not obvious enough? Or did she indeed get it and hadn't deemed him worthy enough? He couldn't dwell on that second thought.

"And?"

"Because if she doesn't get it now… after everything I've tried to impress on her… after being so incredibly obvious, what's the point?"

"What _is _the point, Tristan?"

"The point is…" He seemed to struggle with the words, with what he wanted to say, what he wanted to admit. "The point is… what if I do tell her and it makes no difference? What if I tell her, put myself out there, and she turns me down. Or brushes me off. Or laughs in my face. Or worse, pities me." He stopped his rant, biting down on his lip. His voice toned down, "I'd rather suffer alone and have her as a friend than let it out and have her pity me." Hate he could deal with because it was a strong emotion and she would still talk to him, still banter with him. Indifference and pity were weak, because it meant he had lost all control of the situation. Indifference and pity were what a person felt when they didn't care enough to feel strongly about something. When they couldn't even be bothered to muster up enough energy to make up their minds about how they felt about someone.

"Tristan…" The man's soothing voice drew him back again. Tristan was beginning to hate reality very much.

"I can't let it out," he insisted, knowing he would be contradicted, knowing he was being a baby about it. He couldn't help it. It hurt too much to be anything else. "I know it's a weakness, a sore spot, a whatever. A control thing. I get it. But I can't help it. I can't let it out unless I'm sure because once I let it out, it'll be there. Out there. And I won't be able to take it back. And I'd rather she hate me than think me weak."

center----------------------------------------/center

Tristan didn't want to think about it. Hadn't wanted to relive the night since it happened. Or rather, since the fallout happened. If only Paris… He wanted so badly to… to what? He didn't hate Paris. He liked Paris. She was like a… She wasn't Rory.

"I'm sorry about that." The man returned to his armchair, having ended the quiet telephone call that had interrupted them. "A client with bigger issues than you." It was meant to be a joke, but Tristan did not crack a smile. He was too busy berating himself for past events, past actions. "Where were we?" he prompted, lightly, as if they had been busy sharing sports scores.

Tristan frowned. "You were just about to either blast me for kissing Paris or cajoling me into telling Rory everything."

The man grinned brightly. "That's not very fair, Tristan. I was going to do neither. This is your time. You dictate the conversation."

"Do I?" Tristan turned a challenging brow to the man. "It seems as if every time I decide I don't want to talk about something, you find a way to bring me back to the topic, and don't stop until I do talk about it."

"Well, that's my job, isn't it?" the man asked rhetorically.

Tristan sighed. "I'm tired. And you know that I won't necessarily do anything you advise me to."

The man shrugged. "Fine. So I'll skip the friendly advice about pouring your heart out to Rory."

"Fine," Tristan grumbled.

"But why the kiss? You said yourself that you knew during the date that you didn't like Paris in the way that she wanted you to. A kiss is rather intimate, isn't it? Something friends don't normally share quite like that. At least in my experience."

Tristan resisted the urge to shrug. "She looked like she wanted me to." Pause. "And I didn't want to disappoint her." No, here was a boy who was not used to disappointing. Wasn't capable of disappointing because he knew the consequences of failing. "I guess because she was having so much fun, and I didn't want to upset her by turning her down."

"But in hindsight…" he prompted.

"Hindsight is 20/20," Tristan muttered. "It doesn't help."

"Okay. So we'll move onto something else."

"I've kissed her before," Tristan said suddenly. He lifted his eyes to meet the older man's expression. There was shock there, and Tristan wasn't sure if he was pleased to see it so clearly on the man's face. Up until now, the man had seemed to know what Tristan was going to say, what he was feeling even before he actually said them. And for some unexplainable reason, it had been almost comforting to know that maybe he could be so transparent. That his feelings, his thoughts, his actions, weren't so strange after all. And that all Rory would have to do was look at him. Really look. And then she would see.

"Paris? You've kissed Paris before?" The man had kept his face neutral, but there was some amount of incredulity in his voice. After all that Tristan had shared regarding his feelings about Paris, it had seemed odd that he would have kissed the girl before.

"On a dare. In sixth grade," he admitted, almost embarrassed. The man tilted his head and gave it a little shake. Tristan continued, "I kissed her and I got $20 for it." He didn't sound apologetic. His voice was oddly lacking in emotion, eyes unfocused as he recalled the incident. "It hadn't been a big deal to me then. By sixth grade, I had kissed a couple of girls already. Kissing wasn't a big deal. I was practically a pro at it. And Paris wasn't. She was the smart one, the bookworm, and the self-proclaimed, socially inept one. And she was always so shy around me. So they dared me. And I did."

"Tristan." There was an almost paternal disappointment in the man's voice.

Tristan glanced up, smiling wryly. "It was a nice kiss. For sixth grade. For a dare." Then he shook his head and the smile disappeared. "I guess that was part of the reason for the kiss, too. I guess I wanted her to know that I could kiss her on my own volition. That I didn't need a dare to kiss her. That she's not that kind of girl."

"What kind of girl is that?" he asked, curious.

Tristan didn't hesitate. "The kind of girl that guys only kiss when dared. She's not that kind of girl. She deserves more. Better."

"But it wasn't your own volition. You kissed her because Rory asked you to," he pointed out. "It might as well have been another dare. But instead of $20, you were hoping to win Rory's respect."

Tristan shook his head adamantly. "No. Rory suggested that I date her. She never told me to kiss Paris. That was… that had been my own fault." The last part of the confession had been made quietly.

"It wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't it?" There was fire in Tristan's blue eyes. "I led her on with that kiss, didn't I? Gave her hope that there could be something more between us. Gave her hope when there really shouldn't have been any. If I hadn't kissed her, then maybe she wouldn't have been so excited, wouldn't have expected more, wouldn't have been so mad…"

"Was there any other reason why you would kiss her?" He knew there was. Tristan never had just one reason for anything. Everything had to be so complex.

"We had so much fun…" Tristan bit his lip, pondering, weighing his words. "And Rory had reminded me that Paris and I had history together. And she liked me so much. That used to be enough. And you never know. I couldn't say with absolute certainty that there would be nothing between Paris and me. You really can't predict anything like that. I guess I thought…" Tristan seemed to be having trouble expressing himself. It was unusual for the outspoken and verbal boy.

"What? You thought what?" his observer prompted.

"I guess I thought that it would be easier if I could just open my eyes, and suddenly see Paris in a new light. It seemed promising. We had so much fun. And I actually liked being around her. And I thought that the kiss would… you know, make it or break it or something."

"So how was the kiss?"

Tristan gave a sad smile. "It didn't knock me off my feet, if that's what you're asking. But it was okay. It was nice." He repeated it again, as if he had to convince himself of it, remind himself that the kiss had indeed been satisfactory But it hadn't been great. And that was the problem. If it had, they wouldn't be here talking about it, and he wouldn't have had to keep reminding himself about it. He would have been able to sleep at night. "But it was like kissing a… a sister. Or a good friend. There was nothing. And just for a second… I thought that maybe I had been wrong."

"Could your unresolved feelings for Rory have been clouding your judgment?" he asked, curious.

Tristan frowned. "I've been replaying the kiss in my head ever since she exploded in front of everyone. I've tried to analyze it. Tried to find something that she could hold onto, something that would take her hurt away. To give her hope when there really shouldn't be any."

"You do know that that's not your responsibility." No response from Tristan. The man sighed "And did you find anything for hope?"

Tristan hung his head. "There was absolutely nothing. And it has nothing to do with Rory. Because trust me, if I believed that there was any inkling of something possible between Paris and me, I would jump at it. Honestly. Why wouldn't I? Why wouldn't I when Rory… and Paris…" He gave a frustrated sigh.

He believed him. It was hard not to. He observed Tristan as the boy clenched and unclenched his hands. Another nervous gesture. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

The boy let out a soft sigh, as if resigned to everything that had happened so far. He had stopped being mad a long time ago, around the time that he had made such a fool of himself at the formal. And now, he was resigned. "Don't be." There was a genuine though almost sorrowful smile. "There's a reason for everything, isn't there? That's what you said, right?"

****

End Part 6


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